Slices

Tis days not nights which raws the melancholy  
When mind smells blood and excoriates the soul  
That eviserating black and white of reason which greys all light  
And tiresome wander of sleepless night takes flight  
Before the piercing, pitiless dawn  
Bludgeoned numb from welter of the blows  
Hollowed gaunt  
In ragged tatters the roll of shoulders bears  
Weight, the world, all...and yet  
Nothing  
Nothing left  
Worth befret in one's own eyes  
 
Choler rasps the disposition well  
Which, if it could, would lie to self  
Self as well as all  
Yet, no war cry, death chant, silent wince  
Changes the world in its course  
Pause tides or winds  
Or gathers moments again  
 
The south  
Summer days are long and hot  
Sweat box hot  
Red clay dust powders the back roads  
 
So close and yet too far  
Sometimes something breaks  
In the heat  
 
I broke for you